


Road To Redemption

by spacewuuf



Category: Assassin's Creed, Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Assassin's Creed III, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, F/M, M/M, Marvel Universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-01-26 19:57:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1700615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacewuuf/pseuds/spacewuuf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wade and Spidey live in mid-18th century North America. Wade is a born into a Iroquois-Mohawk tribe and Spidey is a disgruntled intellectual leaving pre-urban Manchester (UK) behind to find a place for himself in the New World. Things turn bad for Wade but then he meets Ratonhnhaké:ton | Connor Kenway.</p><p>Amidst a nation's fight for independence and Assassins and Templars fighting for dominance, Deadpool, Spidey and Connor find that once their paths have crossed, it gets difficult when they are forced apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Little Incident

**Author's Note:**

> This Crossover Alternate Universe was some time in the making but after the 4th chapter "Fading Colours" I hope I have it down ;). 
> 
> SpideyPool is my current OTP, BUT I feel like Ratonhnhaké:ton | Connor would fit well into the equation. Plus, I could not think of any AC-canon character that I'd like to ship Connor with. So here goes nothing: SpideyConnorPool - or something. Oh and did I forget to mention, I'm fascinated by the 18th century pre-Declaration-of-Independence America. 
> 
> Matchitehew = has a bad soul  
> Onequetawh = Mohawk for Grandma
> 
> If one of you can give me proper advice on Native translations for names, go right ahead ;)

##  Beginnings

"I hate you! With all my heart, I hate you and will have your head for this!"

[We both will.]

"The fuck are you?"

[Shut up and start crying.]

So he did. The tall boy fell to his knees, cowering down over his mother's body, gently brushing her hair out of her face.

"Gentle, my son. I shall live on in you. Don't let yourself be consumed by ...", Alsoomse said, her last breath drawing near. 

"Yes, Mom? Mom!"

[MOM!]

"... hate. He who did this, don't ..."

Tears started to glisten in the boy's eyes. Pale moonlight sparkled in the little specks of water that now grew steadily on his face, eventually starting to run down his prominent cheekbones, finally falling free from his face. The little droplet fell.

"Don't hate." And with this, Alsoomse closed her eyes, never to open again.

Dark shadows against the moonlight peered in a distance, siltenly observing the scene, the boy and his mother lit up by a full moon breaking through the trees. The boy rose from the crouch, flexing his muscles, bending his back, facing the stars above as if hoping to find his mother's soul among them. Pain writhed his face and a sorrowful moan slowly fought it's way out of his throat, finally to fill everyone's ears.

## The Rangers

"Why, Sir, are you so upset?", the Colonel asked.

Peter turned, the feelings welling in him must have been to obvious to remain hidden: "Why am I upset? Dear Colonel, you killed a boy's mother for nothing but sport."

"Aye, 'twas but a Red woman. They have plenty of them women, the Mohawks do."

"Are they not human? Do you not see them as our kin?", a dumbstruck Peter Parker asked.

"Well, no? You see, they are inferior in every way. Look at them huts and poor semblances of villages they live in."

Peter did not know how to respond appropriately. He had roughed through the boy's hair for throwing that stone after him. Maybe smacked him clean across the face for good measure, but to kill his mother over such incident? It left Peter wondering amongst what sort of men he was travelling. Not that such thoughts hadn't arisen before, but this latest turn of events relieved him of any doubt that he had made an ill choice of company. 

Returned to their camp and sure no Mohawks would follow, the rangers set out to eat what they'd hunted before meeting the Indians. But Peter was not up to it: "I shall retreat to my tent, gentlemen. Colonel." He felt just like making this destinction.

## The Boy lost twice

"Heed your mother's advice, son. You know you have many mothers among us. You will be safe.", the crone attempted to sooth his pains.

"I know." He thought of the ways his people took care of those left alone. He would not want for anything more than any of his brothers and sisters. But still. "Yet, I will have my revenge." And he knew just how he was going to exact his revenge: "Save your breath, Onequetawh. Call me Matchitehew, hence forth, for this is what I am now."

With that, Matchitehew went out into the night-clad forest, leaving behind him the safety and warmth of all he'd known until now, sure yet to find in the darknes and cold of the forest what he hoped to find. To avenge his mother and cause him who was responsible all the pain he was due.


	2. Green Green Grass of Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter finds restless sleep after the events at the village...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I took ages to get through with this. Please comment any critique, suggestions, thoughts!

Peter shuffled uncomfortably in his riding coat and blankets. It was as pleasant a night as you'd get in New England. New England. What a pity they had to name this wondrous land after its wicked mother. Inside of Peter's sleeping head, images unfurled. Images of green fields, wet with a light rain, that rose softly to the hills behind Macclesfield. Peter had loved the hills for their plain yet powerful appearance. No trees. He had always wondered how this came to be and thought, maybe, it had something to do with the soil. Or the rain.

Fading into gray curtains of rain, Peter's inner eye cut to a steep cliff over a white-watered stream cutting its way through the rock. To his left, the river widened and formed a broader valley, just wide enough to take you a few minutes to cross, yet secluded for it was entrenched on both sides behind large conifers. On the edge of the deepest stretch of river stood a red-brick mill, giant wheel turning slowly in the constant flow of water. "Quary Bank Mill" - the name rose like a bubble from the depths of Peter's sleeping mind. The hours he had spent there, thinking up the newest in cotton production technology for the masters of the mill. 

The dream image faded again, shapes changing in the murk and rising again, this time he was looking at a large assembly. Discontent was apparent in all assembled, Peter included. "... must be the oppression of secessionist tendencies in the colonies!", an old man with a gleaming red face under his white whig shouted. 

"But the same will happen to us. You think the war pays for itself? The crown has to find money somewhere and I darn' sure tell you, once the colonies are run dry, we'll be next to pay for it." a large man with red beard said, turning to his friends with a clenched fist:

"You really think it's wrong for them to resist this ridiculous tax?"

"Aye 'tis wrong for they are his Majesty's loyal subjects and bound to obey the law for 'tis the same their side of the ocean as here.", the first speaker responded.

A roar went through the crowd. The discontent was palpable and Peter only wondered, how long his beloved, grand home country could sustain the beating of endless war, for as long as he remembered, there has always been some conflict or other boiling in the Empire. This glorious Empire that had grown so large, the sun never set upon it. And yet the pest that was to destroy it grew not from the outside, but from within. How long would it take, Peter wondered, until the last peoples would resent the King's Rule, until Britons would have to rely solely on the land that God had set them upon rather than some foreigner's soil and toil? 

Peter was a simple man. Not simple in mind or faculties. Simple by birth. His father had been a smith, his mother had sold what she could of her weaving, his aunt and uncle told him when he started asking about his parents. He had been raised by May and Ben, because his parents died under what can only be described as dubious circumstances. His aunt and uncle had always insisted he not dig into his past and heritage but be content with the life god had given him. 

Some day, he thought, he'd like to meet this god who kept people from living peacefully among each other. This god who kept the continent always on the brink (if not at) war. From what Peter had learned at this assembly, Europe's pestilent need for violence was carried to the colonies as well. The white washed walls of the assembly hall in the heart of Manchester dissolved again and Peter found himself looking at the burning Indian village. He could hear the tirade of hate the young boy had spat after the party of Colonists who set his home on fire. 

"Oh god, ...", Peter sat up straight in his tent, sweat running down his forehead. "... we killed them. Like animals, we killed them." With this realization, he could not find a way back into the safe confines of dreamless sleep.


	3. Two Unlikely Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matchitehew gets himself into a dire situation that will give his life a new direction - again. And since two is a pair but three is a charm, our lost boy has a third encounter that will set him on his path for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [EDIT] After some beta'ing here we go with less spelling errors and straightened out sentences ;)

### Pool of the Dead

Matchitehew was perched low in the high ferns that surrounded the dark pool of water in front of a looming cave entry. The sight was quite frightening, even to him that he sought out this place on purpose. The cliff above blacked out the moon and stars, hiding the face of the formation in unpenetrable shadow. The surface of the pool was shimmering faintly in pale moonlight, completely still, devoid of even the slightest ripple. A soft fog evaporated off the pool, adding to the already eerie impression. 

This place was called “Pool of the Dead” for a purpose, Matchitehew judged. Yet he had to see it for himself, feel it’s presence, know it’s nature after all the stories he had heard of it. 

Among his people stories were told of the souls of wicked men lurking in the depths of the water, intent on preventing anything from leaving their domain alive. For the bitter youth it felt only natural to seek this place out, if just for the knowledge that there was a place that could actually rival his deepest feelings in orders of magnitude of hate and brutality. 

Since the day his mother was murdered by the Colonists, by that young man with brown hair and slim features whom he had cursed that night, darkness held him in a tight grip. Matchitehew crept closer to the edge of the water. Inside him, rage burnt red as blood, mixing with pitch-black pain and hate. He felt these emotions welling up in him, more physical sensations than mental almost, his body jerked forward in an uncontrolled, almost unintended motion as if a foreign force guided him and hit the cold body of water that was the Pool of the Dead. 

He was not sure if his eyes were open or not. He saw nothing, or maybe, he did, but the information never reached his brain. Yet he felt himself be pulled deeper into the pool. Some bodiless force tugged at his bare ankle and as he felt the water pressure rising, still not able to see, the presence of a multitude of whaling, crying souls became apparent to him. Like swirls of dark syrup, the remnants of men and women invaded his consciousness, probed his being, judged him, tugged at the evil that dwelled within him. 

But as darkness started to overcome Matchitehew’s soul, a faint shimmer of different sensations surged inside him. Not pure darkness, this figment of light asserted itself, now more a coherent thought than the sinister reflexes that reigned supreme before. “Revenge, it’s not evil, it’s for revenge.”, he thought. And as if the beings in himself understood his thoughts, the nature of their presence changed, he got a feeling of misunderstanding from them. Finally, a deep, serene sensation of bright shining love surged in Matchitehew. The love for his mother. Her face appeared in his mind and he remembered her last words: “Don’t hate.” 

Just as he realized what he had thought, the ghosts of the long-dead changed their behavior. They did no longer welcome him as one of their own. Disgust and repulsion were now the dominating feelings.

He opened his eyes to see he was deep under water, freezing cold and very much short of air in his lungs. Panic set in. He had to reach the surface, breathe, survive. But it was impossible. There was no way of telling for sure how deep down he was, just one thing, the moonlight surface was way too far above. 

At last, Matchitehew realized he was going to die in this pool. Sadness surrounded his thoughts as he opened his mouth and surrendered to the urge to breath, bubbling out the breath he had taken seemingly ages ago, before leaping into the water. 

Pain struck immediately. But he remained conscious. It was definitely water in his lungs, he realized, but his flesh refused to surrender to the darkness lurking around him. In the time his conscious brain processed that information he reached the surface, coughed out the water. Lying wet on the shore of the Pool of the Dead, he felt the presence of yet another strange being. No shadows of the dead, no dreams, no demons. It felt familiar, yet slightly off. 

“Hi. You there?”, Deadpool asked with a hint of mocking in his voice. 

“Who are you, you were there back then…”, Matchitehew responded, turning his head, searching for the other guy. 

“I’m you. But I’m not. And yes, I’ve been there for a while.” 

“Could you please get on with the reveal already?” 

“Nope.”, the Other chuckled. 

### The Meeting

The days that followed Matchitehew’s encounter in the Pool of the Dead were strange, to say the least. After hours of pointless banter with what he judged was a second personality in his head he was none the wiser. If nothing else, he was mildly worried about the state of his head and what the sinister demons in the Pool had done to him. He felt restless and angry beyond measure, desperate to kill things. To find the Colonist perpetrators. To avenge his mother. 

The Other in his head only amplified these feelings, aggreeing to every plan and scheme Matchitehew thought up to kill these white men.  
Then at times, when Matchitehew was alone in his mind, he kept remembering the last words his mother had spoken: “Don’t hate.” 

Just how, he wondered, was he not to hate these men. When he reasoned with himself, he found other words for what he planned to do: justice, retribution, a favour to humanity. 

But before he would do any a favour, he’d have to find the men responsible. The large groups of stone-houses that these people tended to live in - cities, he remembered they were called cities - would be a good starting point for his quest. And cities would be found on the shore. 

By day he followed the river down stream, by night, he turned away from sunset and kept on through the woods as long as he could. And he could walk for longer than he’d ever remembered that he could. Matchitehew judged he’d made it almost to the shore, the air tasted salty now and the wind had stiffened compared to two days ago. 

Dawn was almost upon the earth when Matchitehew smelt smoke. And burnt skin. 

[Yeay, dead things. Kill, kill, kill, woohoo!], the Other sung. 

(Darn it, we have to keep low.) 

[Yeees, and then we kill!] 

Matchitehew lay low in the thick of the forrest and tried to get a bearing on the smell. The wind had come straight at him for the past few days and so did the faint scent. Better get off the ground. Better be up in the trees when the sun comes up, his brain decided. 

[Stealth Kill!] 

Three minutes later, the blood-red disk of the sun appeared on the far horizon, out over the sea. From his high vantage point, Matchitehew finally found what he was looking for. A small wooden hut sat in the forest and in front of it, frames with animal skin fixed for drying and burning clean. A woman tended to the skins, clearing them of fur. What a nasty stench. 

A few leaps and swings later, Matchitehew was perched on a branch almost directly over the hunter’s head, and with a light push, he dropped down in front of her: 

“Hello there.”, he opened. 

“What do you want?”, the woman responded. Her tone was careful, yet not unkind. Her body only showed how alert she was, right hand behind her back, obviously searching for a weapon. 

“To leave.” A deep yet young voice spoke softly behind Matchitehew. 

The young Mohawk spun round, facing the speaker only to freeze at the sight. Just a few yards from him stood a looming, broad figure in a white hooded robe. Bright eyes sparkled from the shadow the hood cast. In his right hand, the man held a tomahawk of strange shape and size, his left hand lay on the holster of a pistol. 

[This looks like fun!] 

(You mad? He’s armed, we’re not… ) 

[Any way.] 

Matchitehew hurled himself forward with what power he possessed. The man in the hood had quick reflexes. He stepped aside and with a swift fling of his tomahawk opened a long gashing wound on Matchitehews torso. 

Matchitehew screamed in agony and fell over a leg that must have appeared out of nowhere, landing flat on his chest, tasting stale dirt in his mouth: 

“Oouwwww why’d you have to do that, huh? Why? Just slash at the first guy you meet on any regular day?” 

“You attacked, I defended myself. Now state your business. Why did you sneak up on Myriam?” 

* * *

Matchitehew swirled his tongue around the guy’s rock-hard cock one last time, causing the bulky stranger - who was definitely Native as well - to tense up all the way from his head to his toes. The shudder that went through his body was accompanied by a long muffled moan that sounded very sexy, given his deep voice. 

Letting go of the other’s butt cheeks and swallowing the load, Matchitehew looked up, straight into the hazle brown eyes that even now seemed to pierce him through the heart. 

[Better break that silence.] 

“Man that was awesome. By the way, that little nick you gave me: gone. Would you look at that? Oh sorry, am I talking to much? Like talking right after sex - some folks say it’s awkward. D’you mind? Not the talkative sort, are you?” 

[Sorry, could have worked.] 

(Moron.) 

“How did we end up here? This feels very … wrong.” 

“Dunno, can you remember? Should we care? Did you enjoy that and oh, by the way, I’m Matchitehew, what’s your name?” 

An uncomfortable silence settled over the unlikely pair again. Both peered deep into the other’s eyes, trying to find any hint of what sentiment was currently driving the other. Shifting uneasily before the still kneeling man with his breeches down by his ankles, the asked decided to respond. 

“Ratonhnhaké:ton - Connor, if you can’t deal with Kanien’kehá:ka, but it sounds like you can.” 

“Sure can, Ratonhnhaké:ton. Pleased to meet you. Now that we are done trying to kill each other for the second time - I really was that good, wasn’t I - you tell me where you learned to swing that tomahawk of yours the way you did when you slashed me open.” 

“No.” 

“No? Ah come on, man. I just blew your brains out, like, almost literaly. Little appreciation?” 

“No. You go first. Who are you and what brings you here?” 

“You really wanna know? How kind of you.” 

[Are we gonna kill him after?] 

(Don’t know yet. We’ll see. But somehow I like him.) 

* * *

Ratonhnhaké:ton had been listening for what felt like hours and at times thought it was just like one of Achilles’ lectures. Only focussed less on the important aspects, but rather on pointless details. On and on Like what Matchitehew’s favourite color was, how this had influenced his travels since the death of his mother, how he fell into the Pool of the Dead. 

“Wait, you mean to tell me, you emerged alive from the Pool?” 

“Yup, sure did.” 

“Intriguing. Would you care to tell me more.” 

“No.” 

“Are you mocking me?” 

“Yes.” 

“I see. Maybe this conversation …”, Ratonhnhaké:ton was inclined to say ‘monologue’: “ … has reached it’s end.” 

“Oh please no, I was just half way through.”, Matchitehew pleaded. 

“Either way, you will require rest, even though the wound healed unbelievably quick… ”, Ratonhnhaké:ton was still wondering about this and was going to check a few books of Achilles’ later, he resolved. “If you wish you can stay the night, I will prepare our guestroom. I’ll only be five minutes.” 

“Ooooh the GUESTROOM? Your bed not big enough?” 

“No.” 

“You mocking me?” 

“Yes.” 

Twenty minutes later, Ratonhnhaké:ton had already burried his head in the volumes of Native history and Assassin notes. Maybe these accounts would shed light on Matchitehew’s story …

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to get the beginning right and set up all major characters. "So here goes nothing." 
> 
> Please comment, like and share - if you enjoyed. If not, suggestions?


	4. Fading Colours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratonhnhaké:ton and Matchitehew meet Spidey - finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not yet beta'd please bear with me. As always, please comment or share, leave kudos if you enjoyed it :)

Haytham had just gotten comfortable in his lounge chair when a servant came in: 

“Excuse me, Sir, another letter. From one of your contacts, not the Royal Mail.” 

“Very well. Dismissed.” 

Haytham twisted the envelope, searching for cuts or a forged seal, trying to make sure it was genuine. Whatever it was, he thought, would better be worth his while. The farther he was away from the Old Country, the more he began to despise the old English ways of thinking that even his subordinates could not free themselves of. So what would it be they were bothering him with this time? 

After reading the letter for the third time, Haytham was sure he’d not misunderstood a word. Even as a Templar, used to the godly, the super-human, this letter read oddly. It gave warning of a “Spider-Man” that had boarded a ship for the colonies in the winter of 1769. Six months ago. He’d have to give these couriers a talking to. This was no turnaround time for a Templar communiqué. “… what can only be described as a <> …”, his second in command in Britain wrote and knowing the man to be of able wits he was certain he had indeed been lost for a better description. Whatever this man was, by the description given he posed a serious threat, on par with the rising strenghts of his son’s pointless attempt at raising a new Assassin Brotherhood. If he was to unleash his powers upon the Colonies, there was no telling which way tides might turn in the already unclear future. 

With the resolve required of a Grand Master, yet with a slight bit of insecurity turned inward, Haytham ordered his men in the Colonies to keep a look out and put Charles Lee in charge. Surely the cruel executive would devise a way to find and neutralize the Spider-Man. 

* * *

Peter had enough. After another day had turned into a nightmare of stealing from the Natives by getting them drunk and promising more firearms, he had enough. Though he had wanted to keep a lower profile with his Spider-Powers, not mess his life up, not make another exodus half across the world necessary, he could not stand idly by. 

“Excuse me, gentlemen.”, Spidey said and slung dron from a tree: “If you don’t mind, let these noble men keep their father’s land and be off, if you please.” 

Charles Lee spun around, as did the other rangers. The Natives looked not with suprise, more curiosity. It was their luck that Lee had not opened the rum-kegs yet, for they were hopelessly succeptible to alcohol. 

“So the note told true, for all it’s strange description and all. There is a Spider-Man in the Colonies.” 

“What now? You know me?”, Peter could not hide sincere suprise. 

“No, I don’t. And you won’t live long enough for me to get to know you.” 

Lee unsheathed his dagger in an instant and launched himself at Peter. The rangers, without second thought, mimicked their leader. Muskets, daggers and swords were drawn. But Peter was quicker than the lot. He jumped up and with a flick of his wrist pulled himself up between the treetops with the aid of his webs. 

“The report said you were brave and powerful, but now you hide. Come out, coward and show me what you got.” 

Before dealing with Lee, Peter thought it wise to protect the delegation of Natives, but as he looked for them, he found they had already sought refuge behind trees. It made sense. These men were well-trained warriors, if only half of what he had heard about the Seven Years War was true. 

Just as well. This way, Peter could focus on dealing with Lee: “You’ll have your due. I won’t see any more of these men be deprived of what’s been theirs forever.” With that, Peter dropped down right in the middle of the group of Rangers. 

Lee was quick and well trained and it took Peter all of his heightened senses to avoid being sliced and diced. Fighting at close quaters was not the way to beat this foe, so Peter flipped backwards, disposing of two Rangers by straight kicks to the face. He completed another backflip and landed four meters up on the stump of an old walnut-tree. 

[I admire that you people from large villages actually can tell trees apart, but should you really be thinking about what tree your character is fucking stuck too?] 

Disgruntled, Peter shook his head, ridding it of the strange thought that went through it. Focused again he shot a volley of web-balls at Lee. He’d only perfected the technique recently, it worked by letting the webs shoot into his curved palm so as to form a ball using the impetus the liquid exiting his wrists carried and then releasing the ball by opening his palm, utilizing the same force to shoot the web ball. But the officer managed to ditch the assault that should have taken him out. In return, he released two well aimed shots from his double-barelled musket. Now it was for Peter to avoid the bullets that - against all training - were much faster than his web-balls. He managed, the leaden projectiles hit the tree bark, but Peter felt wooden splinters and lead shrapnel dig into his neck and shoulder. 

He had dodged these shots not by much at all and it was only proper, he thought, he should be reminded by a few scratches and splinters. 

“I’ll have to step up my game, redouble my training efforts. In England things were easier.”, Peter judged. 

Maybe it was because in the Colonies men and women were more used to protecting themselves, if and only against English Regulars trying to enforce the Quatering Act and thereby usurping homes and estates at random. 

Charles Lee took the oportunity when he noticed the Spider-Man was dwelling upon some thought, destructed while stuck - quite impressively - to the vertical tree stump. He jumped for the body of a knocked out Ranger, got hold of his pistol and took good aim. Even in deep thoughts about the misguided actions of the British parliament Peter was lucky his abilities included an acute sense that would warn him of foreboding danger. He snapped out of his ponderings no second to late, ditching the bullet again, still closer this time, if it was even possible. He scolded himself for this blunder that nearly cost him his life. 

“You little sissy will you get down here and fight me like a man? Really, you’re but a boy, aren’t you?” Lee mocked the Spider-Man. Judging by the size of his frame, he was barely 20, not much muscle, no shoulders to speak of. 

“Pardon me, sir, I think I will part with you for tonight.”, Peter returned, already shooting one web high into the treetops, swinging away into the brush. 

* * *

“Those bumbling fools! As always, the Old Country fosters neglect, weakness and laxity.” 

The reports of the Spider-Man’s superiority seemed wildly exaggerated after the run-in with Charles Lee, Haytham judged. 

“Think they not I have dealings with matters of much greater magnitude than their feeble fears of some minor insurgent?” 

“But Sir,” Thomas Hickey intervened, “He made a fool of Charlie in front of the company. Won’t this …” 

“No, it won’t.” Haytham knew what Hickey where Hickey was going, “I do not care for Charles’ pride. For the raging brute he can be, what is a little bad press?” 

“Aye, Sir, I understand.” 

“Very well. So if this Bug-Man appears again, make sure we don’t fail a second time. No matter his capabilities, he signed his own death-warrant by defying us.” 

“Yessir.” 

Hickey turned to leave, leaving Haytham alone - the way he most prefered it. 

* * *

“… that men have returned from the Pool. Experiments by the Templars in A.D. 1515 revealed that whomever they threw in there was doomed. Naught could ever be retreived from these hellish depths.” 

The account of one of his Brothers from two-and-a-half centuries ago was shocking. Ratonhnhaké:ton had learned that frequently men and women had sought to acertain the nature of the Pool of the Dead, but to no avail. 

Ratonhnhaké:ton startet to wonder, if maybe the stories of his people contained details about the strange place. He thought of the stories of those who came before, *Precursors*, he knew the Templars called them. Old Nan had told him of these powerful beings over and over and the Assassins' records about Altair's quest for the Piece of Eden were very specific. The Apple was safe in Masyaf, half a world away.

From his own experience with the artifact that first sent him on his quest, he knew the powers these Precursors had. Surely this must have something to do with the Pool. He closed the ledger and stood to stowe it away safely. The library was magnificent, Ratonhnhaké:ton always thought. Shelf upon shelf, aile upon aile full of thick, leather-bound collections of knowledge so profoundly breathtaking, he wondered what would happen if it was open for all the world to know. 

“Knowledge is power.” The thought flashed in his mind. Armed with the right nuggets of it, most any man could make sense of his life, improve upon it, unleash his potential. 

On a different shelf, Ratonhnhaké:ton searched through scrolls of parchment. He remembered Achilles saying that some of the oldest accounts were those least twisted by, the most true pieces of information. Trusting his mentor, Ratonhnhaké:ton reached for an especially unconspicuous scroll. 

He and opened it, so brittle it almost broke when he spread it out. These writings told of the effects of the Apple as recalled by one Malik, apparently a friend of Altair’s. 

“When it’s malignant powers are unleashed, most everything in it’s way will fade to ashes. Men and Women, Old and Young, all perish by it’s power.” 

This matched the previous accounts Ratonhnhaké:ton had read and supported the assumption that the powers of the Pool of the Dead came from a piece of Eden. But Malik’s account continued. 

“Rarely, once in a thousand times or less, the Apple will transform rather than destroy, even against the wishes of him who wields it. These individuals will go mad, in time. Devoid of reason or self, they wander the earth, almost immortal yet without purpose or goal.” 

Ratonhnhaké:ton re-read the passage. Concern grew in his belly, that viceral feeling full of foreboding that is not based on knowledge but intuition. The distinct sensation before going into battle. Was Matchitehew going to become like that. A madman? A shadow of himself, albeit immortal? 

An image took shape in Ratonhnhaké:ton’s mind. He saw a pale-skinned, gaunt figure against light-grey sky, looming over him, eyes distant and without recognition, yet aimed at him. It was Matchitehew, without fault, but a gruesome version of him. Ratonhnhaké:ton could not place the sensation he was experiencing. He did not want this to happen to Matchitehew. He wanted him to be whole, well, safe. 

* * *

The bed Ratonhnhaké:ton had prepared for Matchitehew was awesomem, not only by the standards of how he had spent the last few days, but on an absolute scale of awesome beds. Matchitehew had not restrained himself and bounced on the mattress a few times, enjoying the bouncy warmth it promised for the night. 

Satisfied with his sprawling position on the bed, the lone wanderer started to think. 

(So, that was strange, the wound healing just like that.) 

[Pretty cool. You think we are kinda invincible now?] 

What an awesome idea, Matchitehew had to admit, even though he still didn’t know who or what this second voice was. 

(Dunno, maybe we should test it?) 

[You think? Um, yeah! We’ll kill something, finally] 

(Well, technically we don’t want to kill ourselves.) 

[Yeah, sure, no dying, but still, shooting or slashing.] 

The notion was amusing - yet impratical. After all, he was not going to catch the Rangers without a head. Or an arm. Or a leg. 

[Stop that nonsense, here, I’ll show you…] 

Just like that, Matchitehew felt this violent part take over, reigning supreme in his head. He was already out the door of his guestroom, when he realized what he was going to do: He was going to get a gun and shoot himself. Just as a test. Just to be sure. 

(Wait, there’s gotta be a better way.) 

[Don’t care. Shut up.] 

He was down the stairs already, wondering again who’d built such a manor in an unsettled forest. On the ground floor, he quickly found what he was looking for. Coming in, he had noticed a musket on a desk in what looked like a study. He grabbed it, checked it was loaded and steeled himself for what he was about to do, pointing the gun at his head, telling the muscles in his trigger-finger to flex. 

He never got to firing the shot. A sharp pain surged in his back and right arm, he flew forwards, across the desk, sliding to a halt in front of the empty fireplace. Ratonhnhaké:ton had disarmed him from behind, yelling: 

“What did you think you were doing?” 

[Ugh, what a dull guy.] 

“Did you have to interrupt, that was my own personal business.” 

“You are not killing yourself in my halls. Why would you do that?” 

“I wasn’t. I was just gonna test my healing capabilities.” 

“By shooting yourself? Well, it seems by protecting you, I still served your purpose. Look at your arm.” 

Matchitehew tried to raise his right arm, looking down at it. It was twisted and hung at an odd angle, broken. But while both men were watching, with an audible crack, the bones realigned and the fracture healed. 

“Yeiks, that hurt.”, Matchitehew said. 

“And your head was not going to hurt?” 

“Uhm, I guess.” 

The landlord rolled his eyes, turned and left the study, leaving Matchitehew lying where he was. 

[Isn’t he cute. All worried and stuff?] 

(Yeah. So cute.) 

* * *

Peter decided he would return to Boston. At the moment, it seamed, there was not much for him on the frontier. Rather than raiding villages, he’d try to find a permanent roof over his head and then plan his next steps, maybe investigate the Rangers again. He had signed on without much thought when he heard they were heading for the frontier. 

Dawn neared and the sky turned a soft pink on the far horizon, softly fading into a deep blue all the way over Peter’s head. Light clouds far up in the sky reflected the first light of the sun which still perched behind the curavture of the earth. The forest was damp. Leaves hung heavy with mist and Peter was wet from swinging through the forest. He marveled at the untouched nature, how the Natives lived in it without destroying it - such a difference compared to the Old World. The dawn of the age of machines in England, an age which Peter had helped percipitate, meant Man could shape the world to his liking. No doubt, if men like Charles Lee succeded, America would look different in the future, too. This very forest, the people living in it. All might change. 

Peter, unbeknown to him at the time, had signed up to be an agent of this change. The Rangers, men of the frontier, they were not about exploring, but exploiting. But, if Peter was honest to himself, it was no suprise. He always brought suffering to those around him. Why should this have changed on a different continent? 

“Remember this, Peter. With great power comes great responsibility.” 

Uncle Ben’s voice was as vivid in his mind as though he had stood right next to him on that thick oak branch. 

[There you go again with the trees, seriously?] 

But he was not of great power yet, Peter thought. Maybe, if he stayed low, deny his gift, he could keep those around him safe? 

“No.”, he said out loud. What a stupid idea. By denying his gift, he would be responsible by means of negligence of attrocities happening around him. What a perverted situation. 

Do nothing: Let bad things happen to people.  
Do something: Be the cause of bad things to people closest to you. 

Peter caught the next branch and pulled himself up high into the treetops. His thoughts were at once silenced and he let out a gasp. The view was stunning. A little bay with a small mooring on the opposite site lay ahead of him. Peter breathed out, letting the tension flow out of him in a gush of evaporated breath. 

He looked around and took in the sight. In the opposite direction, he could barely make out houses but was sure he heared horses and the rattling of sabres. 

Without hesitaiton, he swung in the direction of the sounds. 

* * *

From his vantage point up in the trees, Peter identified the origin of the battle-sounds. In the yard behind a fair-sized mansion, two men were having a go at each other with tomahawks. The sun already touched the chimneys of the mansion and caused soft sheets of fog to emanate from the ground. Combining the eerie light, fog and occurence, this was all to strange a sight. What Peter noticed was, that this was no battle to the death, rather one for supremacy, maybe training. 

The smaller of the two men was much more skilled with his tomahawk. Also, he looked a lot stranger than the inferior fighter. He wore long white robes and a hood, as though ready for a long ride through bad weather. It was suprising how well he could execute the large, powerful motions required of axe-fighting in these garments. 

His student - at least it looked like he could be - was dressed in what Peter had learned to identify as the clothing common to the Natives in this area. What he lacked in training, he tried to make up with his looming size. Peter thought for an instant he might have seen him before, but the image in his mind just would not match with the figure before him. As his gaze lay upon the trainee, he felt his pulse quicken. This was definitely a comely sight to behold. 

Peter decended the tree and approached the couple, who saw him as soon as he left the cover of the thick brush. 

It was the larger man who spoke first. 

“Hey, waddaya think you’re doing here?” 

“Good morning, I …” 

The figure in white shoved past his student and pulled his hood down, revealing long black hair and sharp yet not forbidding features. 

“Excuse him, this is my settlement. Could you tell me who you are and what your business is with me?” 

That sounded more inviting. Peter responded “My business with you, well none, honestly. I am on my way to Boston, that is, if I knew the exact way. Could you point me into the right direction?” 

“You are sure you’re not here on someone’s order? Because I warn you, if you are, I will deal with you in unkind ways.”, Ratonhnhaké:ton said raising his tomahawk slightly to enforce the threat. 

“No, I, not anyone’s order, no, just, me.” Peter stuttered. 

“Fine. Do you care to join us for breakfast? You look weary from your… meanderings.” 

That came unexpected, but Peter did indeed care for a propper breakfast. 

At the table he learned the names of the two Indian men. Well they were not men, actually, he thought. Just like him, youngsters, men in the making. Since he was not fluent in Kanien’kehá:ka he more stumbled through than spoke their names. 

“Call me Connor if it helps.” the landlord offered. “And this is… Wade.” He gestured towards his large student. 

[Wade?! Did he just make that up?] 

Wade threw Connor a demanding look, only to be dismissed immediately through an upheld hand. 

Peter nodded thankfully and added “My name is Peter.” 

Keeping his eyes on Wade, he reached for his cup of tea and took a sip. 

[Is he staring at us?] 

(No, why would he?) 

“So, you’re just out here alone?”, Wade asked. 

[Ratonhnhaké:ton is definitely staring as well.] 

(Yeah, you’re right. Did we do something wrong? Oh wait, we’re handsome as fuck!) 

“Alone? Well, yeah…” 

“No wife left behind in the city?” 

[You diggin’ him? I thought we were after Ratonhnhaké:ton!] 

“Definetely no.” 

(Yeah, what he said.) 

Just now did Peter notice he was staring at Wade. That leather jerkin he wore revealed quite a lot of his chest and arms. He looked away awkwardly. 

Ratonhnhaké:ton broke the silence, himself lifting his gaze from Wade. 

“So you want to travel to Boston. If no family, you have business there?” 

Peter gulped down a hearty bite of sandwich. 

“I’m not sure as of yet. Probably, though. You wouldn’t happen to have seen any Rangers scurrying around, tricking your people out of land and posessions? A band led by Charles Lee?” 

That name seemed to have struck home, yet Ratonhnhaké:ton replied, 

“No, we haven’t.” 

“I see. When they pass by, be on the lookout. They are a mean bunch.” 

Wade interrupted hastily, “What’s your deal with them?” 

“I ran into them briefly but got away…”, Peter lied. 

Wade only shrugged and let it go. It seemed to Peter they hat reached a dead end - every one of them was hiding something. 

(I think I’ve seen him before. And if he knows these Rangers, I should follow him, maybe he’ll lead me to them.) 

“Anyway, I should be off. Thanks for the first proper breakfast in days.” 

“Don’t mention it.” Connor said. 

With a shy nod to Wade and a gesture of thanks towards Connor, Peter left the mansion and made for Boston. 


	5. Men?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratonhnhaké:ton has a hard time with Matchitehew and is only to fortunate that there are always haystacks in Assassin's Creed. Peter Parker meets Samuel Adams and finds out America is not England. Duh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took me some time to get back in the game, but here we go.

“Sweetums, I think we should follow him.” Matchitehew opened after Peter had left them. 

“What did you just call me?” 

“Connor?” 

(No we didn’t! But he is so sweet.) 

“Don’t make fun of me.” Ratonhnaké:ton snapped back at Matchitehew, discontent showing in the furrows above his eyebrows. “But you have a point. He knows more than he would like us to know.” 

(He thinks we are right.) The Box in Matchitehew’s head grinned - could boxes grin? 

“Yeay, field trip!” was what came out of Wade’s mouth. 

“Yes, not yet though, another week of training, then we shall go.” 

* * *

Peter Parker wound his way across the crowded King’s Street in the center of Boston. On a warm evening like this, it was no wonder it seemed as though every living thing in the city was afoot and Peter thought how different Boston felt from the Old Country. He’d only ever known Manchester and though by his judgment Boston was smaller, it was by far the more exciting city. People were constantly on the move, either, as he had done, foraging the frontier for opportunity, or looking for the next business opportunity. Businesses were springing up everywhere, opportunity was all around. Peter’s passion for science was sure to be sated were he to join the ranks of the entrepreneurs im America. 

Stopping in front of a crooked wooden door, he thought to maybe ask Samuel Adams if he knew a place for him to settle and pursue his craft. The man was lauded more for his acute sense in politics than business, but it was also said his connections in the Colonies were unrivaled. The run-down inn where he was supposed to meet the prodigious man did not seem fit for the likes of him - a judgment Peter was soon to reverse. 

Walking up to the bar, Peter asked the inn-keep “Excuse me, Sir, I’m looking for a Samuel Adams.” 

“Are you, boy. Well, Sam’s this there chap.” he said pointing towards the far corner of the locale. “And don’t call him Samuel.” With a wink, he turned around to draw a few glasses of ale. Before walking over to the crowded table the man had indicated, he took the time to observe the goings-on. 

Sam Adams was surely the flamboyant center of the group of people that gathered in the far corner of the inn. His face was predominantly nose. A tall nose rather than long, not pointed but not thick either. It was just big. His mouth was slim by comparison, thought that might have been because he currently looked displeased. His hair was already graying even though he did not look to be over fifty. The strained look on his face was supported by his red complexion. Either he was really pissed or a drunk, Peter figured. The young hero-in-training straightened himself and walked towards the crowd, putting as much confidence and resolve as he could into his stride, intent on making a good first impression despite the seemingly sour mood of Mister Adams. 

“Good evening, my name …” Peter opened with just enough volume to his voice to actually be heard. To his surprise, Sam Adams looked straight at him, held up a hand, commanding silence and interrupted him, 

“Yes, Peter Parker! We were to meet here, yet you stood at the bar eying me for ten minutes. Is something wrong with my appearance? And why did you not get yourself some ale?” 

His voice was resolute but not without a hint of humor. Yet Peter was not sure if a smile was asked for just yet. It must have shown, for Adams continued. 

“Don’t look so grim, young man, nothing to frown at, is there?” 

That was humor all right. Peter attempted a smile that he was sure came out awkward. 

“Mr. Adams, I’m glad you agreed to meet me.” 

Still not the right tone. Adams looked benevolent like a priest talking to his flock. 

“Peter, please, call me Sam. America is not England. I heard you came over only recently, so I’ll forgive you that broomstick you keep up your arse. But make sure to ditch it, or you might find people won’t take kindly to you. You see, we’re not overly fond of the King’s men here in Boston.” 

“Alright, Sir, I mean, Sam, ditch the broomstick, I get it.” 

“Good God, someone get him some ale and sit him down, also, get out everyone, this young deer is frightened by you lot!” 

Did Sam Adams just compare him to a deer? Did he look that scared? But Peter did as he was told, sat down across from Adams and was promptly provided with a glass of ale. Then they were on their own and Peter finally vented the apprehension in a long sigh. 

“Now, there you go. What is it you want of me, Peter?” 

“Um, information, I suppose. I went out with some rangers recently but it did not end well.” 

“Ah, well, you see, I am a public man, what’s in it for me? What do I get out of helping you?” 

“I have no employ as of yet but am an able scientist. I thought in your printing business I might …” 

“I see. That’ll do. So, these rangers…” 

Peter told Sam Adams everything that transpired on the Frontier. As wordy as the man might be, he was a good listener. He’d nod occasionally, ask a quick question or mumble a thought about what he had just heard. When Peter was done, Adams sat silent, thinking, for another minute. 

“If, as you say, this party was commanded by Charles Lee, these were not any rangers, but **the** Rangers. They recruit boys like yourself fresh from the landing pier, luring them with … ah well, you know yourself why you went with them.” 

Peter smiled at the shortcut Adams took to speed up his thought process. Indeed the promise of fortune and adventure on the Frontier had been quite appealing to Peter when he came of the horrid ship. 

“Anyway, they are not at all about showing you kids places to settle. They raid Natives, as you experienced. Get them to talk, get them to drink, then either kill them or get them to sell out everything they have for a few muskets and gunpowder. That is their way. I’m no fan of this, not at all. You know who you should see? William Johnson.” 

Peter tilted his head in question. 

“William Johnson, though no friend of mine in political affairs, knows his way around the Frontier and was the Crown’s liaison with the Iroquois during the French and Indian War. He knows their ways, speaks their language. Mayhaps, he knows something.” 

“And where to find him?” 

“Want to go running after these Rangers? Must be full of ideals, my boy. What about the favor I get in return? I could use a man of able wits such as yourself on my writing staff. Get the word out against the King, getting American’s to believe in their right to representation, sound like something your Enlightenment ideas would support, eh?” 

“I suppose, when do I start?” 

Although Peter would have liked to start the hunt for Lee and his men immediately, his purse was empty. Plus, getting to know the people of America, getting to know their ideals and beliefs could not do him harm, and what better place than a newspaper to stay on top of current affairs? 

“But I will get paid, right?” 

Adams chuckled. 

“Yes, my boy. You will.” 

* * *

“Don’t shove with your arms, step into him, force yourself into his spot!” 

Ratonhnhaké:ton barked. Teaching could be such a pain. Matchitehew was an able student, that was without question. But as fierce a warrior he might become, as talkative and stupid he was already. 

No minute could pass without some - granted, occasionally witty - remark, often at Ratonhnhaké:ton’s cost. But it was not the japes that annoyed Ratonhnhaké:ton, he could overhear those by now. The wordy confessions of admiration for his body were what bothered him. He had never gotten any sincere compliments of the sort Matchitehew gave him. Not from a woman, and certainly not from a man. 

Apparently he must have pouted because Matchitehew offered: 

“What’s with the pout, Connor-chan?” The large man tilted his head to one side in a questioning manner. 

(What’s with the japanese honorific titles? That is the question!) 

“Dunno, what about it?” Matchitehew asked the Box out loud. 

“Whom are you talking to, Matchitehew?” 

“Why, no one, my dear. Don’t worry your cute head about me.” Matchitehew cooed. 

Ratonhnhaké:ton rolled his eyes, feigning annoyance. Really, he felt confused about his friend. He decided to play it cool and take his leave, pretending to be to irritated to commence the instruction. 

Once inside, Ratonhnhaké:ton went straight to the kitchen to make himself some fresh ginger tea. His mind was not in the task though and he spilled some hot water, just hitting his hand, causing an mild burn. 

“Ouch! You see what you do to me, Matchitehew?” Ratonhnhaké:ton grimaced. 

Tea in hand, he walked upstairs into the library. But sitting in his regular spot did not calm him as it would usually do. His mind was still racing, trying to make sense of Matchitehew’s behavior towards him. Shiftlessly he got up again, took his tea and walked out onto the balcony overlooking the bay. Tea in one hand, he jumped the railing, set the tea down on the roof and with a swift flick of his legs, eh was standing on it. The sun was at its apex, burning down on him but the constant breeze coming in from the Atlantic mitigated the heat so that it was actually very pleasant. Ratonhnhaké:ton took his tea and crossed the roof, lying down on the side that faced the yard where Matchitehew was training. 

Up on the roof out of view and with a cup of tea, he finally found some peace to think straight. Achilles would probably not approve of him taking an apprentice. And he’d definitely not approve of Matchitehew being that apprentice. Admittedly, the guy was crazy. There was no milder way to put it without lying. Ratonhnhaké:ton had thought about this before. Matchitehew’s encounter at the Pool of the Dead must have had something to do with the state of his mind. 

Together with his the stories he’d read, another memory of his first meeting with his friend surfaced. This was a very corporeal feeling, a sensation in his loins. Yes, he’d tried to forget what Matchitehew did to him. He’d tried to forget how vulnerable and weak he’d let himself be, at the mercy of a stranger he barely knew. Out of nowhere, a picture of his mother surfaced from the depths of his subconscious. She was smiling benevolently at him. Then the image faded, but Ratonhnhaké:ton was none the wiser. 

From his spot on the roof, he couldn’t see Matchitehew training, but he knew the other man was there. Lightly, intent on not making a sound, Ratonhnhaké:ton inched closer towards the ledge of the roof. Looking over it, he finally saw Matchitehew and he felt a stirring in his belly. 

“Hm, must have something to do with the tea.” the Master Assassin concluded. 

Ratonhnhaké:ton watched Matchitehew practice his skill with the tomahawk, going through various movements, getting accustomed to the weight of the weapon, getting a feel for it. The feeling in his stomach turned into a warm glow. Quite unsettling, he found. He’d go see Doctor White about this later. But right now, lying on his belly, arms folded under his chin, looking at Matchitehew felt good, whatever was wrong with his digestive system. 

Just then Matchitehew apparently decided he was done with the tomahawk. He threw it towards the next tree, burrying it’s blade deep into the old oak. 

(The trees again, dude you’re the strangest author.) 

As if guided by an omniscient, higher being, Matchitehew was jerked around, looking at the manor and finding Ratonhnhaké:ton lying on the roof, looking back at him. 

The Assassin’s heart jumped in shock at being detected. It was no use pretending to do something other than staring at Matchitehew, yet Ratonhnhaké:ton made a hasty attempt at getting of the roof, which send him stumbling forwards and tumbling of the roof, head first. Dumb luck let him fall into a haystack - an exercise he’d mastered when he was just a boy, so no permanent harm was done. 

(Deus-ex-Haystack.) 

Not to his body, anyway. When Matchitehew pulled him out of the haystack - quite lovingly, actually - Ratonhnhaké:ton’s face was burning red with shame. 

“Aww, aren’t you cute, Ratonhnhaké:ton, making sure I do my exercises. But say, I am quite something to look at, right?” He made no attempt to conceal a giggle. 

(Yes we are quite awesome. Working out always pays off!) 

Ratonhnhaké:ton let out a low growl and shoved Matchitehew away from him. 

“Touch me again and I will kill you!” 

“Oops, sorry, sour-wolf.” 

Without another word, Ratonhnhaké:ton retreated into the mansion, distraught for the second time in only an hour. His outburst was a poor cover for what he was really feeling. When in doubt, get angry. He already felt bad for Matchitehew and also the strange feeling in his stomach from before lingered. 

This time, he went up to his room, slammed the door shut and resolved to never come out again until Matchitehew disappeared into thin air.


	6. Two Assassins, Spidey and Deadpool make for some Awkward Moments.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Achilles helps Connor make sense of his emotions, Deadpool is being Deadpool and Peter has to be Spidey to be liked.

Ascending the steps to the front door got more difficult by the day, Achilles thought. It felt as though the burden of Connor’s exploits lay on his shoulders, even though the boy’s actions had grown out of his control - mostly, at least. The mentor was glad his protegé would still return to him for guidance on the occasion when his acute sense of right and wrong still failed him. This usually occurred when situations turned out to be painted in shades of gray. 

The most recent of such occurrences had been his run-in with his father. Achilles paused at the thought of Haytham being Connor’s father. Of course he was his natural father. Yet Achilles could not help but see himself being just as much a father to Connor as Haytham. Immediately he scolded himself for thinking such a self-righteous, possessive thing. Then again, after over a decade of caring for Connor, raising him to be an Assassin, teaching and tutoring him, a softer part of Achilles permitted himself to think of himself as Connor’s parent. If not by nature, then by their common convictions. 

The old Assassin knew these parental feelings would never be completely reconciled with reality. But maybe they would not have to be. He took pride in Connor’s achievements, took care of him when he was hurt, built him up stronger and spent many a night thinking of the most wise path for him to take. So, in all but name, he was a parent to Connor. And he planned to fulfill this responsibility until his very last breath. 

Glad to have finally made it up the stairs, Achilles entered his house. 

He was not prepared for the greeting he received, but then, there was no experience in the world that would have prepared him for Matchitehew. 

The large, yet young lad seemed to bounce of the walls as he opened, 

“Helloooo there, so you must be Achilles, so glad to meet you, Ratonhnhaké:ton told me so much about you - weeeell, actually he didn’t but I figured you must be an awesome cool guy for making such a wicked sweet fighting machine out of him. Wonder, though, what’s up with all the emotional baggage? He’s locked in his room for three days straight and won’t talk to me …” 

Achilles was glued to his spot and while the other man was continuously talking away, he mumbled in response “Yes, I wonder why that would be.” 

“Excuse me?” Matchitehew interjected. A wonder he’d even heard Achilles while babbling. 

“Who are you, and what are you doing in my home?” Achilles demanded without paying heed to the question. For a second, his opposite flashed a blank, dumb expression that might indicate, Achilles judged, intense thinking. 

In the split-second that presented itself to the Assassin, he assessed his situation. He was not armed, the other had a knife tucked into his belt. He was shorter by at least one foot and had not practiced hand to hand combat in a decade. He’d have to try and keep things verbal. 

The large youth seemed to be Native. His clothing and complexion indicated that, so maybe he was a friend of Connor’s? Achilles only ever knew Kanentó:kon as a childhood friend of Connor’s. Just then his opponent proceeded with a response. 

“The name’s Matchitehew - or Wade, I recall Ratonhnhaké:ton saying you’re not good with our proper names. I’m his boyfriend and student. He wants to make me into a fucking awesome assassin-killing-machine. Of course, right now he is in his bedroom sulking ’cause he can’t deal with my awesome.” 

The youth jerked his head towards the kitchen and sniffed twice. Achilles had already noticed the burning smell that emanated from the kitchen. 

“Dammit, the flatbread!” Wade exclaimed and ran away to save the food. 

All Achilles could do was to palm his face. He made for Connor’s room, intent on finding out what the hell happened why he was gone. He knocked thrice. 

“Connor, may I come in?” 

“Achilles? Please.” a feeble voice responded. 

Upon entering the room, Achilles was struck by the mess he found. Apparently Connor had really been in here for a few days. He found him sitting on his bed, only dressed in woolen pants, carving a little piece of wood into what appeared to be a male human figurine. 

“What is it, Connor? That boy downstairs said you were in here for three days? And talking of him, he said he was your boyfriend and student. Now would you care to elaborate on that?” 

After a longish time that would have lent itself to formulate an elaborate response, Connor said “No.” 

“Okey, start slow then. Who is he?” 

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Achilles was briefed on the details of Wade’s origins, why he stayed with Connor and Achilles, why Connor was training him. In fact, Connor’s response was so strangely elaborate that Achilles had no trouble finding out there was much more going on than here than was in plain sight. 

“So he is also searching for Charles Lee. And he’s a good fighter. I see why you’d want him to join the fight on our side. Now about the sulking. I don’t think I’ve seen you like this since I forbade you to keep that dog inside your room when you were 14.” A slight smile grew on Achilles’ face. 

Connor could not help himself, he chuckled as well. 

“Yes, that was stupid of me.” 

“Not stupid, you loved that little puppy.” 

“Yes I did.” 

A meaningful pause extended itself to painful length, Achilles tilted his head, raised an eyebrow and threw Connor a demanding look. Finally, Connor could not continue to look into his mentor’s eyes and looked down at the little man he’d carved. 

In terror, he looked up again as realization struck. 

“You don’t think …? NO! Definitely not! Have you seen him? He is the epitome of chaos and destruction!” 

“I don’t think anything. I feel something. Something, it seems, that you don’t permit yourself to feel.” 

Bewildered, Connor stared at Achilles. He could feel his ears start to glow - a sure indicator that his face was glowing bright red. 

After another long pause, Connor said, 

“I don’t know. Would it even be right? I’m not saying I do, or anything, just you know, is it … would it be … ?” 

“Nothign is true, everything is permitted.”, Achilles concluded gracefully, a warm smile on his face. 

“Don’t worry, if you’re not sure what you feel, time will surely tell. Now, let’s go down and have some of that flatbread.” 

It seemed as though Connor had just been waiting for someone to tell him to stop worrying. He would just postpone any decision ’til later. Great. 

His expression lightened up and much more like himself, he said, 

“Uhg, Matchitehew only ever makes flatbread … although it is quite good.” 

“Alright. I’ll go ahead while you get dressed.” 

With that, Achilles left and went back to the kitchen, finding Wade and hitting him hard on the head with his walking stick. 

Wade turned around, anger flashing on his face. When he looked into Achilles’ eyes though, his anger quickly turned to fear. 

“I don’t know if you are the best or the worst that could happen to him - and that says something. But I give you the benefit of the doubt. When he comes down in a few minutes, you keep your foul mouth shut. You hear me? I don’t want any more of your shenanigans, and believe me, if you embarrass him any more, he will kill you.” 

Nodding, Wade added “Yes, he said so.” 

“And he will make good on that promise. He always does. So BEHAVE!” 

(Maybe he’s right?) 

“You think so?” 

Shaking his head in disdain, Achilles went into the dining room, waiting for Connor. 

To Achilles’ surprise, dinner was quite a delight, Wade did not say one wrong word, and Connor looked to finally loosen up. Satisfied that the boys would get along on their own after dinner, Achilles retired to his room, still wondering if he should rejoice or weep at Wade’s unexpected appearance. But he’d heed his own advice and let time tell. 

* * *

The work in Sam Adams’ publishing business was, as Peter had hoped, the most practical introduction to life in America. Within a few weeks he knew the names of all the influential people, met a good share of those living in Boston and had traveled to New York and Philadelphia. 

As for his quest for the Rangers, Adams had made good on his promise to help Peter and had continued to feed him everything he learned about the Rangers. Which wasn’t much really, except for one report of a young man who had traveled with them and got a little to drunk for his own good. Adams’ men had learned from him that the Rangers were planning to travel up the Mohawk river and meet a tribe that was willing to sell some of it’s land in exchange for firearms and rum. 

They were to leave by sunrise the next morning and Peter had every intention to say hello to Charles Lee and give him a taste of the new and improved Spider-Man. 

Peter had found the cities he spent most of his time in the perfect training ground for his spider-capabilities. Whenever he was out and about, tending to Sam Adams’ business, he got a chance to practice. Be it a small bar-fight or a store-robbery, he had seen more action as Spider-Man in these past weeks than ever before - mostly because the ugly incident at the Native village had fueled a determination to put his powers to use for the greater good. With the best of intentions for the next morning, Peter decided to get a good night’s sleep before roughing up the Rangers and made straight for the humble room that he could now afford off Adams’ pay. 

* * *

Connor and Wade. Trying to look casual, Matchitehew hammered these names into his head over and over again. Especially the word “Wade” he found really confusing. It had nothing to do with him other than the fact that Connor had decided to introduce him as Wade to the awkward little English kid. Now “Connor” he found very fitting for his larger friend. 

(Lover. He’s our lover!) 

“No he isn’t. Not yet anyway. But Achilles said to play it cool for now, or he’ll freak out completely. You’ve seen how jumpy he can be.” 

(Let the old man talk.) 

“No, we’ll try to go by the book, just this once. He is important to me.” 

(To us.) 

“To us, fine.” 

Wade was proud that this time he’d confined the dispute with the voice inside his head to his head alone and not said the answers out aloud. He was sure that would have caused just the reaction in Connor he was adamant to prevent. Though his groins would have liked him to just jump the guy and nail him on the open street, Wade’s head ruled supreme this time. He just continued walking alongside Connor down the busy street in Boston. 

“Why are you so quiet, usually you talk like a waterfall runs.” Connor shot a snide remark at Wade. 

“Nothing, just talking in my head.” 

That comment only caused Connor to raise one eyebrow, turn his head and carry on. Maybe he’d just have to stop worrying about Wade, lest his head would be busy worrying twenty-four-seven. 

The street was unusually busy considering the early time of day. Dawn was, Connor judged, still an hour away. Achilles had said his informant - ambiguous as always, not naming him - reckoned the Rangers would be leaving at dawn for the meeting with the tribesmen. It was Connor’s belief that the earlier he’d interrupt this plan, the better. To his shame, he had to concede that his people were somewhat easy to convince when the leverage applied was booze and guns. So better not let it come this far. 

The target was close when Connor abruptly turned right into a small lane that led to the backyards of two posh town houses, right were the assembly of the Rangers was to take place. In the lane, Connor jumped straight up and grabbed a small brick ledge. With two swift pulls via a window, he was on the flat top of the house. But he was not the first one up there. Much to his surprise he found a young man crouching close to the edge of the roof, looking down into the yard - just the spot he’d have picked. 

Intent on not making a sound, he approached the small figure from behind and turned him around by the shoulders, pinning him to the wooden stall surrounding the stairs up to the roof. 

“That’s my … Peter?” Connor opened but didn’t get very far. As soon as he could see the other’s face properly he recognized it. It was Peter, the youngster whom he had met under strange circumstances a few weeks ago. 

With a loud thud a tomahawk hit the wooden panel Peter was forced again. Connor recognized it as Wade’s tomahawk and turned around in anger. 

“What do you think you’re doing, you could have killed Peter!” 

“Don’t trust my aim?” 

“No. Back to my question: Why did you to that?” 

“He’s the one! I didn’t know how to place him when he was at the homestead, but it all makes sense now, little Petey running back to the Rangers.” 

Looking into Connor’s face Wade noticed he’d not made himself clear enough. He hissed, 

“He’s the one who killed my mother. Together with Lee.” 

“Wade, please let me explain …” Peter tried to interrupt, but Wade wouldn’t have it. 

“Shut the fuck up or I’ll have your head right now!” 

Peter flinched and as though to better convey his position, he held his mouth shut with one hand. 

“Matchitehew, how can this be? He said he had a quarrel with Lee himself.” 

“Does it matter? He killed my mom!” 

Connor and Wade kept on arguing and Peter decided this was just the opportunity to get away and put his mask on. The door he was leaning against was unlocked, so he got up and was halfway down the staircase when he heard Wade’s angry cry behind him. 

“Dammit, Ratonhnhaké:ton he got away! I should have killed him …” 

(Yes. You shoulda’.) 

Connor only folded his arms and tilted his head, taxing Wade, causing him to throw his arms up in the air with annoyance. 

The door to the stairwell opened again and a strangely masked, slender figure joined the currently quarreling team of assassins. 

“Hey there, did you frighten that boy who just bolted down the stairs?” 

“Hell yeah, I did.” Wade responded. 

“And you are?” Connor added. 

“Your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. Pleased to meet you.” 

But Connor had already stopped paying attention. He had heard sounds coming from the back yard. 

As quiet as possible, he moved towards the edge of the roof, instructing the rest with a single gesture to shut up and lay low. And surely, when Connor peeked over the edge, he saw Thomas Hickey. 

The frontiers man had just dropped to the ground from his large white mare and was inspecting the saddle bags, checking and accounting for all the gear he knew he’d need on a trek to the frontier. Hickey was a cunning man. He understood the value of speaking the common tongue of the Iroquois, which was why Haytham took Hickey in and since employed him as his chief negotiator with the various tribes on the frontier. Hickey made good use of this position: He was rich in lands and always found a way to funnel a percentage of the various trades he negotiated towards his own estate. The latter was a large mansion not far from the Davenport homestead, Connor came by there infrequently but had learned of this some years prior when a similar purchase was to be conducted on Hickey’s land. 

Back then, Connor had managed to prevent the transaction, just as he intended to do now. 

In the meantime the sun had risen and the backyard slowly filled with members of the ranging party - youngsters mostly, few older than Connor or Wade. Cannon fodder. These were just cheap hands the Templars tricked into helping them reach their goal. Connor shook his head at his father’s cheap tricks. Turning these kids’ thirst for adventure to his advantage was not fair. 

“Using these boys who came to America to seek a better life’s just wrong.” the Spider-Man put Connor’s thoughts into words. 

Wade grunted. “And when there’s nothing to gain, they just torch the place.” 

Connor commanded silence with a raised hand. Down below Hickey had started speaking to the unfortunate group of adventurous youngsters. 

“Welcome, boys, to the Rangers. We are setting out to the frontier to scout for the best and most promising spots on this fine continent. But I tell you, be prepared to defend yourself. The Indians are vicious when it comes to defending their land.” 

“Pah, **their land**.” a large youth yelled mockingly. 

“Not all that innocent.” Connor thought. 

“Easy, there. But that is the point why we’re carrying guns. But stay your hand, wait for my command or you might end up causing more troubles than necessary. We are riding straight west. One-hundred-and-forty miles take us to the Hudson river. Should take us one week to get there and one week to get back - provided everything runs smoothly. There’s some of the finest land out there, so off we go, gentlemen!” 

Spider-Man looked at Connor and Wade. 

“So, we’re going to the Hudson, it seems?” 

Raising one eyebrow questioningly, Connor demanded “We?”. 

“Huh, well I thought you were going as well. I am. See ya guys, pleasure meeting you.” 

“Hey, wait up.” Wade held the smaller man back by his arm. 

“You are sexy as hell!” Wade blurted out. 

Spider-Man pulled back his hand and, even without seeing his facial expression, Connor could tell he was shocked. 

“All riiiight … I’m off!” With two swift swings, Spider-Man was gone. 

“So nice these web-things.” 

“Did you just call him sexy?” Connor was puzzled. 

“Hmm? Yeah did you see that ass?” was the nonchalant response. 

Connor felt his ears get warm again. Dammit. Yes, he had seen **that ass**. A strange sensation grew in his gut. Wade had called someone else sexy. Pondering the situation, Connor did not know what the feeling was. He only knew he didn’t like that Wade looked at other men that way. 

Ignoring, as always, Connor’s irritated look, Wade went on: 

“I suppose we don’t want them to acutally **reach** the Hudson?” 

Pulled out of his thoughts, Connor assented. 

“No, we do not. But I have an idea where we can intercept them. Come on. We gotta get there before they do.” 

“And with a little luck, Spider-Man won’t know where we wanna go.” Connor added in his mind. 

Over from the far side of the back yard, a dark-robed figure turned and jumped of the rooftop. Haytham had seen enough. Now preparations had to be made to thwart his son’s interference with this newest of his purchases.


End file.
